Hic Sunt Dracones
by Sinister Papaya Fondue
Summary: Of no more use to Voldemort, both Lucius and Hermione are discarded into a game in which the stakes are much too high, and the prize uncertain.  Written for the 2010 Lucius Big Bang
1. Chapter 1

Lucius woke to the sound of a knife being sharpened. If he was not mistaken, it was the small dagger Bellatrix kept in her garter. She thought it was intimidating. However, he wasn't afraid of Bellatrix. He couldn't stand her, but he didn't fear her. She was too insane to be effective at anything.

But she was here for a reason - her face, coldly gloating, said so.

"Wake up, brother-in-law!" she said in a sing-song voice. "I bring news!"

"You've decided the world is better off without you?" he replied. Narcissa would have chastised him for baiting Bellatrix. How she could love this nutter he'd never understand, but as Narcissa often pointed out to him, he didn't have any siblings. He would never know the bond between brothers and sisters.

"You think you have the devil's wit, don't you, Lucius?" she hissed. "Let us see you laugh at this."

She beckoned with her hand. Down the long hallway, a door opened, spilling a shard of light into the dark dungeon. Three Death Eaters entered. Between them they carried a body - tall, lanky, with hair the color of sand dunes. His skin was peppered with cuts, bruises, and burns. So, too, were the bodies and faces of the three men who carried him.

"He put up a hell of a fight," Bellatrix said, a cruel smile curling her lips. "My sister's influence, no doubt."

Lucius staggered to the front of the cell, eyes wide. His heart pounded in his chest. Not Draco. Please, not Draco...

"Oh, he's alive," Bellatrix murmured, her hand trailing down Draco's slackened face. "For now."

"If you touch him..." The words ripped out of him with such primal malice that his voice didn't sound like his own.

She grinned, eyes sparkling. "It's not me you have to worry about, now is it?"

"He's your nephew!" Lucius snarled. "Your blood, your family! How could you betray him like this? How could you betray Narcissa?"

"A nephew is useless if he is weak!" Bellatrix shouted, lunging toward the bars. "He is a stain upon my line! _You_ are a stain, Lucius, and you and yours will be scrubbed out!" She was so close that drops of spittle hit his cheeks.

"If he dies you can say goodbye to your precious line, you barren lunatic!" Lucius thundered right back.

Bellatrix's face went white with rage. He knew he should back away. Oh, how he knew what that _glint_ in her eye meant, but he was so angry that he stood his ground. Bellatrix stabbed her wand through the bars and into his chest with enough force to bruise.

"CRUCIO!"

Lucius hit the ground like a stone, twitching and writhing in agony. It clawed inside him. Her Cruciatus was like the rest of her, wild, extreme, shattered, and he couldn't breathe. The world went white and red with pain.

Ten minutes later, when his mind returned, the corridor was empty. He was left to wonder...and to worry.

* * *

This was it. It had to be. This was when she would die. Her month-long respite, if it could accurately be called that, was over.

Hermione told herself that anything was better than the boredom of her six by six cell. Anything was better than the constant stream of taunts, the starvation, the men watching her when she washed and used the nonexistent facilities, the women telling her she was an ugly, worthless little whore, and above all, anything was better than being shut away from the world. It killed her not to know what was going on beyond these walls.

Was Harry alive? Ron? The rest of her friends and family? What was happening in the war? She had no idea. She was entirely at the mercy of these wretched people.

Such was the toll of helplessness. Hermione didn't know what to do with herself when her autonomy was taken away. For the first week she had fought tooth and nail, firing insults back, proclaiming her faith in her friends and causes, refusing to do anything they wanted her to do. Some of them laughed; others just offered a patronizing little smile before hexing her.

Cruciatus became a regular and expected occurrence. That was terrible on its own, and coupled with the sheer deprivation of a dark cell and a hungry belly, she wore down quickly. The worst part was that they didn't even question her. They seemed not to need to know any information; obviously Harry's plan of finding the Horcruxes was known by this point, and her capture and subsequent torture was perpetrated purely out of malice.

The only thing to be thankful for was the fact that there were no physical beatings, and though the men threatened, no one dared to sexually assault her. She was, the elder Goyle informed her, much too dirty for that. Even so, she didn't test them. She knew that such things were never really about sex. It was purely about control. If they perceived that she was not under their control, she was certain they would use sexual violence to corral her. Fenrir Greyback very much enjoyed young, unwilling flesh, or so he liked to tell her when he was on patrol; he would pace back and forth in front of her cell dragging his claw-like nails along the bars.

So she was worn down but not broken, because she didn't really mean anything to them. Hermione became a cautious prisoner, watching, waiting, seldom retaliating to the abuse that was heaped upon her. She wasn't foolish enough to think that good behavior would earn her anything. However, as time went by, she could see and feel an almost tangible relief in some of her captors. They had expected her to be much worse, and to have to do much worse things to her.

In that way, she was able to sort the Death Eaters in her mind. Most were beyond reason; they delighted in hurting her. There were a few, though, who had not lost the ability to see that she was a person, a child not unlike their own. They were the ones with guilty consciences. They were the ones with doubt.

She had known all along that it wouldn't be enough doubt to prompt them to do anything. There were only small kindnesses - an extra crust of bread, a back turned while she washed, silence rather than insults - because they were too afraid of Voldemort to do anything more.

A hand tightened around her arm, startling her out of her thoughts. This was yet another small kindness. It was an unspoken: _Pay attention, girl, this is it, please go quietly! _She couldn't even resent them for the self-serving nature of it because she knew how these memories would haunt them. They were just as helpless as her - though it was by their own allowance, which was so much worse.

The sudden light that hit her eyes stabbed sharply in her head. She had to close them. Even with the filter of her eyelids, the light was too bright. She was walking blindly toward death, she was sure of it.

The hands jerked her to a stop. In another minute, her eyes adjusted enough for her to crack them open a sliver. As she took in her surroundings, a realization hit her. In all the time she had been here, tortured, taunted, and held captive by Death Eaters, two had been noticeably absent. Two who should have been first in line to torment her.

She had never once seen Draco Malfoy, nor his father. But Lucius was here now, on his knees with three robed Death Eaters around him, a wand pressed to the back of his neck. He looked like hell. Hermione's lips twitched. He looked like he had been in a dark cell for a month just like her.

Frustration welled up inside her. What had happened in the last month? If she was witnessing this, what else had gone on? Knowledge had always been her greatest weapon and she felt awful when deprived of it.

Malfoy didn't struggle. Neither did Hermione when she was pushed to her knees. It seemed they would be executed together. The irony was almost intolerable.

The Dark Lord cleared his throat and the buzz of whispered conversation melted into silence. She looked up at the delusional wizard. Hermione felt no fear, and for that she was grateful. A quick glanced sideways told her that Malfoy was lacking her calmness; his chest rose and fell quickly and his jaw was tight. He was _angry_. Pity; she almost wished to see him overtaken by fear. Almost.

"I have thought a great deal on what to do with you," Voldemort said. Hermione wasn't sure if he was addressing Malfoy or her; maybe it was meant for both of them. Indeed, he went on as if he was. "For your crimes are precisely in opposition to one another." Crimson eyes slid to her. "You, girl, are a thief of power that isn't yours, an insufferable charlatan. A common parasite who has the audacity to call herself a _witch_."

Hisses of agreement sounded among the crowd of Death Eaters. Hermione simply held those unearthly eyes, refusing to be afraid.

"Do you see how she looks at her betters?" Voldemort bared his teeth. "Little cunt." He shook himself as if he had just witnessed something repulsive and then shifted his glance to Malfoy. "And you, Lucius, you should be one of those betters. The world gave you everything. Pure blood, good lineage, magical and social power, intelligence, looks, money...and yet you are a failure. A disgrace of a wizard."

The murmurs of agreement went up again, though Hermione could hear a difference in them. These were forced. They agreed because it was what their Lord wanted.

It was clear now that Lucius was being scapegoated. He was to be the example, the demonstration of the price of failure. What twisted people these were. They should be overjoyed to have failed at atrocity.

"So what to do with you?" The Dark Lord smirked. "Death is too easy. Imprisonment and torture hasn't worked. You are both as arrogant as you were when I brought you here a month ago. So I thought to myself...what if I let you punish one another?"

Malfoy's eyes flashed to her. It was a split second's lapse, and in that glance she saw how desperate he was for redemption. A frisson of fear crept up her spine.

"I have a game for you. Lucius, if you win, perhaps you will be redeemed. Perhaps you will see your family again. And you, Miss Mudblood...if you win, perhaps you will be allowed to live." Voldemort grinned. "Am I not merciful?"

"They do not deserve your mercy, my Lord!" Bellatrix Lestrange shrieked.

"What they do not deserve is my time or my notice," he sniffed. "It is best to let a problem take care of itself sometimes."

With that, he lifted his wand. Hermione felt a tug behind her midsection. A moment later, the world was wrenched away and she was thrown into obscurity.

* * *

The next sensation she registered was being physically tossed through the air. What had to be the ground met her, and none too gently. Hermione struggled to open her eyes as the world swam.

After a long minute, she could focus. The first thing she saw was Malfoy; he was curled on the ground a few yards away, his face contorted in agony. He clutched his left arm as he attempted to breathe evenly.

She must have landed on him. She could tell even from here that his arm was broken. Sitting up, she tried to figure out what to do. Her gut told her to go to him, to try to help and maybe form some kind of alliance. Her mind told her that would be a fool's errand.

She was paralyzed by indecision for a long moment. Then, summoning what was either courage or stupidity, she pushed to her feet and took a hesitant step towards him.

"It's broken. We'll have to make some kind of sling."

He opened his eyes. They were watery - an involuntary manifestation of the pain, no doubt - but ablaze with resentment.

"We? _We?_ There is no 'we', girl!" he shouted, forcing himself to rise. He held his left arm against his body and tried to right his robe. Then his eyes went wide.

As Hermione watched, he reached into his right pocket. His hand emerged with a wand. Her mouth fell open, mirroring his shock. They had _wands?_ Voldemort had given them a way to defend themselves? What awaited them in this place?

Instantly, she searched her person. If he had one, she had to have one, too, right? But a mad search of her pockets and clothing yielded nothing. She was wandless. Of course; why would a man who believed her to be unworthy of the title of witch provide her with a wand?

One look up at Malfoy told her that he realized this, as well. This would be the moment, then, where it was decided. Since she had just broken his arm, Hermione wasn't optimistic.

Lucius didn't disappoint her. His face flooded with hatred and he lifted the wand.

"A soft landing will be the last favor life grants _you_," he snarled.

Hermione reacted instantly with reflexes honed by the last year's constant brushes with death. He would need time to decide what spell to use (though she had a feeling she knew which one would come to mind), and that split second was her only hope. She bolted for the nearest cover.

A jet of green light hit the shrub she dove into. The leaves shriveled all around her, immediately destroyed by the curse. Hermione scrambled backwards, further and further into the thicket, the branches tearing her skin and hair. She barely felt it; it was less important than getting away from the vengeful wizard.

At the last moment, she reached out to grasp one of the branches and whispered a spell she had learned from Professor Sprout in Herbology. It was a simple bit of wandless magic designed to fill the gaps in decorative shrubbery. She had only ever used it on a Christmas tree before. Now it was the only thing that stood between her and death.

As she panted, the shrub blossomed, growing thick and fast to cocoon her. The plants must have sensed her urgency; they became so thick that the light was blotted out and she couldn't see more than a few inches in front of her. It occurred to her that it would be terrifically difficult to get out, but it was impossible to care. She was safe.

* * *

The girl reacted like a spooked animal; she was gone before he could properly aim the wand. He saw where she went and he heard her as well, crashing through the brush like the frightened deer she was. Unfortunately, by the time he made it to where she had plunged into the brush, she had erased her trail. The insolent brat was gone.

Lucius stepped back and breathed through his teeth. His arm hurt, even more so now that he had run without it properly supported. The girl was right about one thing: he needed a sling. But wait...he had a wand, so what did he need a sling for? He ought to be able to heal it.

With one last glance to the thick stillness of the woods, he lowered himself to the ground. Lucius tried to ease his robe from the bad arm. It wouldn't budge; it had already swelled grotesquely. Cursing under his breath, he cradled the arm in his lap and pointed the wand at it.

Nothing. There was no reduction in pain, no sensation of his arm being righted, nothing. Irritated, Lucius lifted the wand and inspected it. There were no cracks or blemishes that he could see. There was no reason the spell should have failed. He had healed a broken bone before. Once, Draco had fallen from his broom...

He shut his eyes against the memory. He could not afford to think about Draco now. His only mission was to kill the Mudblood and get out of here as quickly as possible. That was the only thing he could do to help his son.

Determined, Lucius pointed the wand again. If it didn't work this time, it was possible that the wand had been purposely charmed not to perform healing spells. He didn't put anything past the Dark Lord.

He was right not to dismiss it; the spell failed a second time. So the wand worked offensively - that was abundantly clear from the way the Killing Curse had sprung so easily from it - but he had no idea if it worked defensively, and he knew that he couldn't heal himself. He couldn't afford to be injured again. Thank Merlin the girl had broken his non-dominant arm, and not a leg.

Lucius placed the wand in the grass and set about fashioning a sling.

* * *

Hermione stayed in the brush for a long time. She knew Lucius hadn't moved on yet; she could hear him cursing to himself and trying to heal his arm. Evidently it wasn't working. The lone wand between them wouldn't perform healing charms.

The only way to make it out of here, it seemed, was to do it in one piece. Any major injury could be the end of her. She would have to be cautious and hope that Malfoy's arm hampered him enough to give her an edge.

Her mind at last cleared of its adrenaline rush, Hermione considered how to escape the shrubs. The plants had responded to her so well; perhaps they would do so again? Hermione touched a large branch. The wood beneath the bark was new and springy. Pliable, as Sprout would say. There was a chance it would obey her.

She whispered spells, praying that they would work wandlessly as the first one had. At first the wood refused to budge. But then, slowly, it began to move.

It took her almost an hour and every ounce of energy she had, but when all was said and done, the shrubs had opened a tunnel for her. Hermione crawled through it and marveled at how even and perfect the branches were. They looked like endless rows of ribs, protecting her from any outward insult.

So she knew one thing; the plant life here responded to her. It was a little surprising since she had never been a prodigy at Herbology like Neville. She was good at it like she was good at everything, but it wasn't her best subject. Thank Merlin she had paid attention and retained most of what Sprout had to offer.

She stopped when she neared the small clearing. Malfoy still crouched there, using his hands and teeth to adjust a makeshift sling about his left arm. He had sacrificed his robe to create it. In spite of herself, Hermione found herself hoping that it wouldn't be cold at night. He would freeze.

At that moment, Malfoy's head shot up. He scanned the clearing with a hunter's precision. Hermione felt her blood go cold when those unearthly blue eyes landed directly on her.

Her hand clamped around the greenery, ready to close it around her. How could she have been so stupid? But as soon as Lucius's attention settled on her it was torn away by something else - a sound among the trees.

He was on his feet in a second, wand raised. Silence met him. Hermione didn't dare to breathe. Though all was quiet, she had heard the sound as clearly as he had; something was out there.

* * *

Lucius stood in the clearing, ears straining. He was very good at pinpointing where a target was; he had his father and his love of hunting to thank for that. To be certain, Abraxas had never quite approved of those tactics being applied to Muggles, but he didn't do anything to stop it, either.

The Mudblood was easy to spot. She thought she was hidden, but her red jumper peeked through the plants. If he was so inclined, he could take a shot at her, but that wasn't his greatest concern at the moment. Whatever else lurked in the forest was more important. The silly girl he could handle. The unknown loomed much larger in his mind.

Though he stood frozen, tuned, for three long minutes, no other sound came to his ear. Whatever it was, it was gone...or it, too, stood frozen, observing him.

_Hunting him_. He breathed, eyes sweeping. He knew what it was to be prey, too.

Lucius had evaded the Dark Lord for a long time. Nearly a year, it was. He had taken his family and left two nights after the escape of Potter and his friends from the Manor. The stakes were too high. This entire war had grown beyond anything he imagined. He didn't mind supporting the effort financially, or with his presence and strategy at meetings, but he had never anticipated being sent to prison, losing his wand, and fearing for the lives of his wife and son.

It was all too irrational. The Dark Lord had lost his sense along with his soul and the goal of wizarding purification had become secondary to his quest for power. Once Lucius's fragile foothold of nepotism was lost, there was no hope for his family to recover. They became nothing more than expendable pawns. It was only a matter of time before they were sent front and center to be hacked down by the enemy.

They left through the underground passages beneath the Manor. Only those of the bloodline could access them; Narcissa was able to pass because he and Draco brought her. The passages led to a magically concealed area near Stonehenge. There, three brooms were hidden for just such an emergency. Since the brooms were leftover from his great-grandfather's time, they were old and slow, but a broom was a broom.

From the moment they crossed the English Channel, he could see life returning to his wife and son. Color came to Narcissa's cheeks. Draco's lips remembered how to smile. He himself recalled something other than rage, adrenaline, and helplessness. He was not foolish enough to believe they could stay in any one place for very long, but freedom was sweet even when it was nomadic.

Nine countries, twelve cities, and thirteen houses hid them. For eleven months it was perfect. Then, as they prepared to leave Europe altogether, it began to fall apart. The twelfth month became a protracted game of cat and mouse.

They caught Narcissa in Budapest. She pretended she was alone. Lucius couldn't bear to leave her behind; he gave Draco everything he had (two wands, his wedding ring, and a shrunken bag of many, many galleons) and ordered him to keep running. He went to retrieve Narcissa with full knowledge that he was walking into a trap.

Draco made it another month and a half on his own, and he did not go peacefully when the Death Eaters found him. When he saw his son for the first time in six long, torturous weeks, Draco was bruised and bloody and still snarling, even in unconsciousness. Lucius was proud of him...as proud as he could be with fear tunneling a great pit in his stomach.

This was his last chance. And the worst part was that it was _only_ a chance. For all he knew, he would make it through this, defeat the Mudblood, and return only to watch his family die anyway. The Dark Lord did not have much capacity for forgiveness.

Even so, this was all he had. The smallest chance of saving them was worth fighting for, and fight he would, tooth and nail, until he made it out of here. Whoever, _whatever _it was that watched him...he would not yield to it.

* * *

Hermione could not help but be impressed at the ease with which Malfoy disappeared into the woods. He was moving away from her, thankfully. She had no doubt that he had seen her, but he had judged the unseen intruder more important and abandoned his quest to murder her. She could only hope that the thing out there spotted him as easily as he had spotted her.

Of course, the bright red jumper she was wearing might have something to do with it. It wasn't what she'd had on before being sent here. For whatever reason, Voldemort's magic had put her in this ensemble. Why _would _the psychopath afford her any camouflage? He may as well have drawn a bullseye on her back.

She couldn't resist the urge to check her clothing just in case. There was no bullseye, but it was incredibly impractical for skulking about the woods. Hermione was stuck with it. At the very least, it was warm. If the nights were cold, she wouldn't be shivering like Lucius in his wrinkled white dress shirt.

Sighing, she emerged from the shrubs and took inventory. There were rips in her clothing and her skin. Her hair was an absolute fright. Wincing, she pulled leaves and twigs from her knotted curls and cast them aside. At least it wasn't a contest of beauty. She wasn't ashamed to say that Malfoy would probably win that.

What to do from here? She had no idea where she was or where she was supposed to go. Hermione didn't relish wandering around defenseless. As much as she hated to admit it, the best idea was to trail Malfoy. He had the wand. If he was taken out or let his guard down even for a second, she could take it. Then she would have a means of defense whether she had a clue what to do or not.

* * *

The girl was following him. He didn't much care. He had to leave markers behind to gain any sense of direction here. Besides, it was easier to kill one's prey when it stupidly insisted on staying nearby.

* * *

He knew she was following him, yet he did nothing about it. He even continued to leave little blue hash marks on trees as he passed. It was one of the oldest strategies in the book to keep from getting lost.

He seemed to have a decent sense of direction. Whether it was because of some instinct she didn't have or a spell he'd cast, he seemed to be getting _somewhere_; they hadn't circled around to one of his markers yet. It remained to be seen whether they were heading _out_ of the forest or further into it.

As she walked, Hermione did a slight double take. She could have sworn that she saw one of his hash marks just now, but it had disappeared. Perhaps she was more tired than she thought.

* * *

He ought to have gotten somewhere by now. Perhaps this was the punishment. Perhaps he was stuck in here to wander forever in search of a redemption that would never come, and with only an insufferable Mudblood for company. That seemed suitably vindictive of the Dark Lord.

Lucius had so far neither heard nor seen anything more of the creature in the forest. It was possible that he was paranoid and it was really nothing but an overly curious animal, but somehow he doubted that. He would keep his senses tuned and hope he could evade it, whatever it was.

* * *

Hermione was now certain that she wasn't hallucinating. His hash marks _were _disappearing. Not only were they disappearing, but it seemed like they were transforming into something else. She stood and watched one to be sure.

The blue slash began to bubble up from the tree trunk. The color leached out of it, fading to white, and then it fell from the tree entirely. She reached down to see what it had become. The object she picked up was soft and spongy. On a whim, she brought it to her nose.

Her stomach jolted, quite suddenly reminding her that she hadn't eaten in a long time. It was bread! His hash marks were changing into bread. The animals in the forest were probably eating it, destroying his trail.

No sooner had she thought it than a bird swooped down and plucked the morsel of bread from her hand. Hermione jumped and had to stifle a scream. The bird landed on a nearby branch and wolfed the bread down as she watched. Then the insolent thing had the audacity to sit there, puff up its feathers, and stare expectantly at her.

The moment of distraction cost her.

"Why are you following me?"

A chill rushed through her body at the sound of Malfoy's voice. Bravely, Hermione turned. There wasn't any other option.

"Because you have the wand," she said honestly. "Wouldn't you do the same if our positions were reversed?"

"That is irrelevant." He raised the aforementioned wand.

"Your markers are disappearing," Hermione blurted, hoping to distract him. "They're changing into bread and being eaten by the animals. You've already passed this area."

His eyes flickered to the bird, which was now preening itself. A bright white crumb clung to its dark plumage. Hermione was momentarily entranced by how much she could see in Malfoy's eyes in the few seconds he was unguarded; he was thinking hard, debating his next course of action. She didn't know it, but she looked very much the same when presented with a riddle she couldn't yet solve.

"There are more than animals out here," he said quietly.

As if on cue, a slick finger of intuition crept up her spine. She felt _something_. It was close, and it was watching. Malfoy went very still, the wand held in his hand with a curiously feminine grace. He felt it, too.

* * *

That sensation of being stalked hit him again. It was toying with them. He knew the thrill of being on the other side and the intoxicating rush of power that came with it. He also knew how much he had enjoyed it once upon a time. No longer, for he couldn't flush the memories of fighting the inevitable from his mind. He could only think of the harrowing minutes before Narcissa was caught in Budapest, and how he would have agreed to anything to keep her safe - that kind of desperation and fear was new to him. Both were terrifying.

The girl across from him was well-tuned. She had noticed the presence before him, if only by a second. As much as it irked him, she _was_ a witch, for only a witch could feel such a thing...not to mention the only possibility of an ally in this unfamiliar world. It was unwise to kill one's only resource, even if that resource was also an enemy.

Exceptional circumstances sometimes made enemies unite. If those circumstances came, it would be best if he actually had someone to unite with. He shouldn't act with too much haste, nor on beliefs alone. Logic had long since been missing from his beliefs and it had led him to prison, torture, capture, and sorrow.

He knew that insanity was when one did the same thing over and over and expected a different result. He was _not_ insane. He had the ability to change the way he thought even if it felt singularly unpleasant.

Thinking of this girl as anything other than a horrid Mudblood who had stolen magical power from one who was more deserving was abhorrent. However, if he applied logic, there was no good explanation for how a Muggleborn witch or wizard 'stole' magic. Certainly, their Muggle parents were incapable of such a thing, and it was ludicrous to think a child of ten or eleven could plot it, either.

No one could explain where this girl's magic came from, but it was there and it was powerful. And, if he exercised logic alone, that was a good enough reason for him to let her live. As much as he wanted to end her for a myriad of reasons - thinking she was as good as him, being competent yet impure, diluting his world, besting his son, and breaking his goddamn arm - logic negated the urge.

His arm gave a powerful throb and Lucius winced. Well, logic negated _most_ of his urge to murder her, but not all of it. Pain made him very unpleasant, indeed.

* * *

Hermione was so absorbed in the sensation of being watched and wondering what it was that did the watching that she almost forgot about the more obvious menace. She saw Lucius move out of the corner of her eye and tensed. Perhaps it would be a blessing if he just killed her now. The Killing Curse was painless, or so they said...but maybe that was just something they told the families to ease the grief.

His face darkened. She was sure death waited on his lips. Defiantly, she drew herself up as tall as she could and raised her chin. She would not die cowed by a bigot.

"It's what he wants," she said. "He'll laugh when you kill me, and laugh harder when his trap kills you. Don't pretend you don't know that."

Malfoy was silent, arm extended with the wand pointed at her chest.

Hermione burned to know what he had done to be thrown in here with her - what made him so disgraceful that he was sent to hell with a Mudblood. That wasn't really the important thing. What mattered was whether he was truly desperate for redemption. He was no better than Bellatrix if that was the case, and while she had little to say about him that was positive, Malfoy had at least proven that he was a quiet, calculating zealot, and not the wailing, mad sort. There was the barest slice of hope for the former.

It seemed he was leaning that way. Earlier he had been quick to anger, ready to murder her for the entirely accidental fracture of his arm. Now, when she was defenseless and resigned, he waited. Waited and waited and waited, his face blank, eyes frighteningly void, locked up in his own thoughts.

Then, after a century's tension laden into a single minute, he lowered the wand.

"I will not defend you," he said succinctly. "And if you try to take this wand from me, I will kill you."

He turned, pale hair whipping around, and walked away. Hermione stood where she was, stunned. His sentiments had not been kind, but what mattered were the words left unspoken.

_I won't kill you just for existing._

In her experience, that was a major breakthrough for any Death Eater.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, racing with the knowledge that her own mortality depended on the caprice of two men. Neither was known for his open-mindedness, nor his kind and gentle demeanor. However, Lucius had one essential thing that Voldemort lacked.

Malfoy still had his soul, or something like it.


	2. Chapter 2

_He will laugh when you kill me, and laugh harder when his trap kills you._

Yes, that son of a bitch would. Lucius walked, his long legs carrying him swiftly to nowhere. Anger bubbled in his gut. As much as he wanted to believe that there was a chance at redemption and saving his family, the logic he vowed to consider told him otherwise. The Dark Lord would take the greatest pleasure in watching him strive and kill and claw and bleed to redeem himself, and then telling him it was not good enough.

But what hope could he have if he allowed that to rule his mind? If he believed that would be the outcome, why not just lay down and die now? He would rather die than see his family harmed.

What, then, did he have?

There was spite. Plain and simple spite, a refusal to die quietly or in the expected fashion.

There was rebellion. Destroy one's own destroyer.

There was poise, what little trace he had of it. _You took my family and my dignity from me, and I will not grovel to get either back, for my family is already lost and dignity is not found in trying to please its thief._

Most surprisingly, there was curiosity. There was the desire to know what he had been thrown into and what would come of it in the end, not to mention what role the little Mudblood would play. If he was honest with himself, he had always borne a passing interest in this girl, this 'Brightest Witch of Her Age'. Was she truly as smart as they claimed? Was she skilled or just lucky? And _why_? Why had she been granted these abilities instead of someone with pure blood?

He wanted to dissect the girl, literally and figuratively. Lucius wanted the answers. Somehow he felt that it was very important for him to know. While he couldn't accept Voldemort's irrational agendas anymore, he also couldn't blindly embrace the opposite. Too many mistakes had been made. From now on, he would believe nothing until he had all the answers laid out before him.

A scent tickled his nose and Lucius stopped. Smoke. Not like that of a destructive fire. No, it bore the warm, welcoming scent of a roaring fire in a hearth. There was a house nearby.

Though his stomach growled forcefully and his bladder lurched, reminding him of needs that he had been too distracted to attend to, he moved with caution. Just because there was a house did not mean its occupants would be friendly. In fact, he might be walking right into the hunter's den.

Now he could see the column of smoke and a brick chimney. A few more steps and he spotted the house through the trees. Lucius squinted. It was brown and yellow and white, crowned with...jewels? He leaned closer. It was the strangest house he'd ever seen.

No, those were not jewels. They were candies. The sparkle wasn't that of stone, but of sugar, and the textured bricks were cake.

He would have killed to take a bite out of the damn thing, but he knew better. Lucius stayed where he was. To say he was perplexed was an understatement. Was this meant to torture him? The Dark Lord was going to have to do better than that.

* * *

This was too familiar. A pair lost in the middle of an endless wood, a trail of bread, a house made of sweets...

Either she was losing her mind, or she was in some bizarre version of Hansel and Gretel. Hermione crouched low among the brush, her eyes firmly on Malfoy. He was confused. His indecision proved that. At least he was smart enough not to go marching right up to the house.

She wondered if wizards and witches knew the fairy tales she had grown up reading. It was obvious now that they were Muggle recounts of the collision of the magical and non-magical worlds. A thousand years ago, magic wasn't regulated and wizards mingled freely with Muggles. The stories of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen, among others, probably bore more truth than anyone believed.

But wizards and witches had their own tales. She knew that well, having scoured the Tales of Beedle the Bard a dozen times before her capture. Why would they pay any attention to the fairy tales of Muggles? For them, there was nothing exceptional about the stories.

If Malfoy had not recognized the similarities to the tale, he must not know it. Hermione chewed her lip. Should she tell him? The kind part of her said yes, but the survivalist issued a firm no. This might be her only weapon in this world. She knew the story, and so she knew what to expect. Besides, Malfoy wouldn't be doing her any favors. Why should she do any for him?

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than that greasy chill slid down her spine again.

* * *

Lucius whirled around, but it was too late. Something hit him solidly in the temple. Pain exploded in his head and he knew he was falling. All he could do was clamp his hand around the wand and then push it up his sleeve. If he lost the wand, he was dead.

The grass was cool and fragrant against his cheek as he struggled for consciousness. Then he was being dragged. Around the haze of pain, he could hear a merry tune punctuating the air. His captor was whistling.

* * *

She bit down on the scream she wanted to release. It wouldn't do Malfoy any good and would only serve to reveal her presence. Though Hermione couldn't stifle a small gasp when the creature moved and clubbed him savagely over the head. Malfoy hit the ground heavily. She doubted that he had much of a skull left after that blow, but was heartened to see that he secreted the wand up his sleeve. There was at least one brain cell still working.

Not many others, though, for he couldn't get up and definitely couldn't fight back. His eyes rolled back as the creature dragged him through the small clearing toward the house. She prayed that his attacker wouldn't take his clothes. Though, if they did, perhaps Hermione would have a chance to steal the wand without risking Malfoy's retaliation.

A peal of weak sunlight broke through and Hermione caught a good look at the being that charged the air with such unease. To say it was a hag was kind. It looked like a cross between Dolores Umbridge, an Inferi, and a werewolf.

This was 'the witch'. Hermione swallowed as another realization hit her. Most magical folk would not know these stories...but Voldemort would. No doubt the young Tom Riddle, raised as a Muggle, would have read or heard many fairy tales. What amusement it must have given him when he realized that magic was real. And what a perversion he must have thought it - Muggles trying to interpret magic.

Hermione watched as Malfoy was towed to a cage and then thrown in. It was barely big enough for a dog, let alone a fully grown man. Malfoy would not be happy when he woke. Never mind that the cage was outside and a chill was creeping into the air as the sun began to set.

The hag didn't take his clothing. She closed the door, locked it (with magic _and_ keys), and disappeared into the house. Hermione stayed where she was, as indecisive as Malfoy had been only moments before.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, it was night. The sky was moonless. A few stars blinked here and there, but he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face.

Or maybe he had been blinded by the blow to the head. It was possible, considering he felt like his skull was half-imploded. The accompanying headache made him so nauseated that for a long time, Lucius couldn't move.

It was only after thirty minutes of willing himself not to vomit that he realized he _couldn't_ move. There was nowhere to move to. He reached out and cursed. Bars. Metal fucking bars.

Was his destiny to go from one cage to another?

"Malfoy!"

He snapped back to attention, shaking his wrist purposefully. The sensation of relief when the wand slid into his hand was indescribable. Lucius waited.

"Malfoy?"

He wasn't imagining it. Someone was whispering his name. The Mudblood? He knew he had kept her around for a reason, but for heaven's sake, she should have been long gone by now. Did she have no sense?

"Are you daft?" he shot back.

"That's a fine question," she replied. He couldn't see her, but her voice put her somewhere to his left. "Probably, since I'm trying to help you."

"What the hell was that thing?"

"A hag." He heard a soft clank; the girl was examining the lock. How she could see was beyond him. "It's magical. It won't open for the person inside the cage. I might be able to get it open, but you have to give me the wand."

Oh. Oh, yes, she was smart, deceptively so. He couldn't be angry, for her strategy was one he could appreciate.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" he asked.

"No, I think you're trapped. If you don't give me the wand, you'll stay here. I can't get you out any other way, and if you don't escape, that thing inside the house is going to eat you."

Lucius bit off a short bark of laughter. "Eat me? You are imaginative, Mudblood."

The bars around him vibrated as she slammed her hand against it. "Fine. Have it your way. You can stay here and freeze."

There was the barest shuffle in the grass. The audacity! She had actually left! He sat for a moment, unsure why he had expected her to stay. If she wanted the wand, a little suffering on his part would go a long way. Crafty little bitch.

* * *

He had tried everything he could think of to escape. It seemed the Mudblood was right; the locks wouldn't open for him.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was _cold. _He had removed the sling so he could use his robe as a blanket, but even with that he was shivering. Of course the wand wouldn't cast a warming charm, either. What the hell good was it? Maybe the only thing it could do was kill.

As his teeth chattered, Lucius wondered if it would let him commit suicide. He smiled. Probably not. That, too, would give the Dark Lord a good laugh - the mighty Lucius Malfoy being worn down to the point of wanting to die by his own hand, and then discovering that the wand didn't work.

Though, did he really need a wand for that?

No, but that was yet another thing meant to demean him. Wizards died of natural or magical causes. They did not hang themselves, slit their wrists, or throw themselves from a great height. To die without magic was to die without honor.

He curled up as tightly as he could. There was nothing he could do but ride out the night. It wasn't cold enough to kill him...just to make him exceptionally uncomfortable.

"Add it to the list," he murmured, and pulled the robe over his face.

* * *

He was pretending to sleep. Hermione wasn't fooled. She couldn't sleep because it was too cold, and if she couldn't, neither could he. As difficult as the day had been on her, Lucius was worse off. He had a broken arm, a concussion, and a cage.

He was a stubborn, arrogant, bigoted arse. And she was a bloody fool for pitying him.

* * *

"Malfoy!"

Lucius opened his eyes. The girl again.

"I am not giving you the wand," he said.

"I'm telling you, she's going to cook and eat you," she whispered furtively.

"So there is a cannibalistic hag in there, ready to feast upon me?" he mocked. "Will she eat a piece of the windowsill for dessert?"

The Mudblood made a sound of annoyance. "I'm not going to run away with the wand! It's practically useless, anyway!"

"You expect me to believe that you wouldn't flee the minute it's in your hand?"

"Just because that's what you'd do doesn't mean everyone would!" she snarled. "I don't know why I bother."

Lucius sighed in irritation. She could cast whatever aspersions she wanted upon him; he was not going to give her the wand. A moment later she seemed to accept that. However, before she left, she leaned close and pressed something through the bars.

"Take this," she said. "In the morning the hag will come out and tell you to give her your arm. She wants to know if you're fat enough for her to eat. She doesn't see very well, so she won't know the difference if you hold out the stick. She'll think you're too thin and she'll bring food to fatten you up. It will buy you some time."

"You are absolutely barking!" he hissed. She could spin a good yarn, that was for certain.

"We'll see about that," she replied. Then she was gone again, and he was alone with the cold.

* * *

Sometime after sunrise, he nodded off. The warmth in the morning sun made him comfortable enough to drop into a light, uneasy sleep. It didn't last long.

Lucius nearly jumped out of his skin when a loud clang sounded. It vibrated all around him, echoing in his ears and causing him to curl up in pain.

"Wake up, dear boy!"

Boy? Perhaps the Mudblood was right; this hag's vision _wasn't_ very accurate.

"Let auntie see you. Come now, up with you!"

Her voice was shrill. It made him cringe, for the headache still pounded stubbornly between his ears. The way she dashed her frying pan against the metal bars was not doing anything to help.

"Hold out your arm! Have you been eating?"

His eyes went wide. How on earth did the Mudblood know? He groped for the stick, but just as his fingers closed around it, a bony hand with long, jagged fingernails closed around his arm. His _broken_ arm.

The hag squeezed, and Lucius did not just see stars. He saw galaxies.

"My goodness, you didn't seem this chubby last night! You're quite the healthy boy, aren't you." She released his arm. Lucius curled into fetal position, unable to do much else. Breathing without screaming was his greatest achievement at present.

"Tell auntie now...wasn't there a girl with you? Where's that little sister of yours?"

"N-no. No girl. Just me," he choked out.

"Well, that's a shame. I always wanted a little girl. A girl to help me in the kitchen."

The hag's voice was distinctly sinister, and on her breath Lucius caught a waft of something he had smelled once before. A stench that lingered around one Fenrir Greyback. The stench of blood and flesh.

Suddenly, the idea that this hag might eat him did not seem so ludicrous after all.

* * *

He would cast the Killing Curse on the hag when she came back. Yes, that would do it.

_No, Lucius, it will not, because you'll still be in this cage. There's no way to kill the hag from here without having to hand the wand over to the Mudblood._

But she would have to let him out eventually, right? She wouldn't cook him in the cage. How could she eat him that way?

Oh, Merlin, was he really entertaining this line of thought?

He glanced up as the door to the cake cottage opened. The hag stepped out. In her hands she held an axe and a long, thick stake. She turned towards him and Lucius immediately looked away. His mind began to catalogue the ways in which something as large as a fully grown man could be cooked.

Hacked into pieces, then boiled, like soup. Baked, broiled, roasted. Braised. Grilled. Poached? Raw...

His gag reflex kicked in and he fought it back. A moment later he had to do it again, for the hag was suddenly very close to the bars of the cage. She was hideous up close, with rheumy eyes marred by cataracts and a mole-dotted mustache of wiry grey hairs. Her teeth had obviously not been cleaned in decades. That breath alone made his eyes water.

"Ready for your bath, boy? Can't have you dirty, can we?"

He was ready for anything as long as it got him out of this goddamn cage. "Yes, ma'am. I'm ready for my bath," he replied, trying his best to sound dumb and obedient. The persistent little voice in his head that he couldn't seem to silence whispered: _you are dumb and obedient, Lucius, and that's what landed you here._

She waved her gnarled hands over the locks and they clicked open. The hag stepped back, but never far enough for him to have room to run. Wincing, Lucius unfolded himself from the cage and stood on cramped legs. He couldn't have run even if he wanted to.

What did he need to run for? He had the wand. The wand that would cast at least _one _spell, which, in this case, was all he needed. He would wait until they got into the house, until the hag's back was turned.

* * *

Hermione watched as the hag led Malfoy toward the house. If she was not mistaken, he was waiting for the opportunity to attack. Hermione's gut told her that going into the house was a bad idea, but Malfoy was the one with the wand. The decision wasn't hers to make.

She licked her lips. Either Malfoy was going to get himself killed and cannibalized, or he would kill the hag and stroll out as arrogant as a delusional emperor. She found that she didn't like the idea of either outcome.

If he didn't emerge from the house by nightfall, she was leaving. That much was certain.

* * *

Oh, yes. This hag definitely ate people. There was no other reason to have an oven that large, unless she was baking houses made of cake every day. It was easily the size of a bedroom. Much to his alarm, its door was shut tight, and a lick of orange flame danced in the square window. _Something _was on the menu tonight.

Well, not if he had anything to say about it. Finally, the hag turned away to get something on the counter. Lucius lifted the wand and aimed at the center of her back.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green light sprung from the wand and hit the hag between her hunched shoulder blades. He waited for her to stiffen, to fall, to die...but she didn't. She whipped around, a tremendous knife in hand, and advanced on him with incredible speed.

"Little boys, always playing with sticks! You can poke your eye out, you know!"

She snatched the wand from his hand and threw it into a nearby pile of scrap wood. Lucius could only stare open-mouthed. Not only had the wand done _nothing_, but now it was lost amidst a pile of twigs and sticks that looked exactly like it. This was getting better and better.

"Now," the hag said, in that sweetly sinister voice, "into the bath before auntie has to punish you."

* * *

Smoke was curling lazily from the chimney. An hour had passed. Unless Malfoy was performing a protracted jig over the hag's body, he had not succeeded in killing her.

Bugger.

* * *

His arm looked terrible. It was twice its normal size, all protrusion of bone and muscle cancelled out by swelling. Bruises were beginning to bloom along his arm and torso. Even his hand was swollen, the skin so tight that he could barely make a fist.

He held it to his body, eyes warily tracking the hag as he soaked. Marinated was more like it. The bathwater was essentially a spiced broth. He was surprised she didn't throw vegetables in with him.

_You should have listened to that stupid little Mudblood, Lucius._

Yes, well, wouldn't she laugh if she saw him? Naked in a man-sized pot, soaking in broth, held hostage by a mad crone of unknown, yet menacing power? Not to mention a very large knife?

She was using the knife to chop things as he watched. _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

He scanned the cottage. Perhaps he could put that candlestick to good use by embedding it in the hag's skull...

"Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?"

A sweetly feminine voice. Surely not the Mudblood. Surely not...

* * *

She was losing her mind. Anyone else would let Malfoy cook. He certainly deserved it.

But Hermione was wary of this world's design. It was a creation of Voldemort, and meant to punish or kill her as much as Lucius. Hansel and Gretel was not a story without Gretel...and if Gretel let Hansel die, she would be alone to face whatever remained.

* * *

The hag turned to him.

"Naughty boy," she said. Her voice was different, lower somehow, and otherworldly. Her lips drew back from her teeth, which were now pointed. "You lied about sister dear."

Quite suddenly Lucius knew what he was dealing with. The hag was nothing short of a demon. Demons rarely crossed out of the spiritual world, but when they did...they were almost unstoppable. He stood no chance against it. Not alone, and not in any kind of direct attack.

He stayed still. If he was docile, the demon would be more likely to drop its guard.

"Why would you do a thing like that?" she asked, advancing upon him, breath stinking like rotting flesh. The knife was still in her hand, wet with reddened juice. She had been slicing beets. "Why trick poor auntie?"

"I didn't know she followed me," he replied evenly.

The knife tapped against his cheek and stung. It was so sharp it could probably slice a hair.

"Well, I hope sister dear is less naughty."

Lucius stared up at the demon's slitted eyes.

_I wouldn't count on it_.

* * *

It took everything she had not to laugh. Lucius Malfoy was sitting naked in a large roasting pan with golden broth up to his midsection. If his murderous expression was anything to go by, he wasn't very happy about it. Though she supposed he was less happy to be seen that way by her. Well, she had tried to warn him, after all...

In reality, very little was funny about the situation. It was clear upon one look at the hag that she was a demon. Hermione had never faced a real demon on her own, and certainly not wandless. Malfoy knew it, too, and that was why he stayed where he was, watching, thinking...fuming.

* * *

The hag put her to work slicing vegetables. The Mudblood put on a good charade, acting every bit the responsible girl helping an elderly aunt. She stood in profile at the counter behind the hag, knife slicing rhythmically.

Her eyes slid to him and her lips moved.

_I told you to give her the stick._

Lucius glowered and then pointed at his arm. No lip-reading was required for her to understand what he meant.

_The wand?_ she mouthed.

He jerked his head towards the pile of wood scraps. Her eyes followed and then an expression of dismay crossed her face.

"Useless piece of shit," she muttered under her breath. He didn't know if she meant the wand or him. Probably both.

"What's that, dearie?" the hag asked.

"Nothing, auntie," Granger chirped back. "I hope my brother hasn't been too naughty." She turned to look at him once more, eyes spiteful. "He doesn't listen very well."

"Ah, no matter. He's good underneath it all."

Granger said nothing, but he would bet every galleon he had that he knew what she was thinking.

_Good enough to eat._

Lucius couldn't help himself. He made a rude gesture with the one good hand he had.

* * *

As much as she was enjoying watching Malfoy squirm, she needed to plan. So far things had played out according to the story line, more or less. It was accelerated by the hag's misperception that Lucius was already fattened up. One would think that when squeezing a swollen arm.

She meant to put him in the oven tonight. Shortly. Hermione was slicing the vegetables that would cook with him. In mere minutes, the hag would ask her to test the oven's temperature, intent upon pushing her in to cook right along with him.

In the story, Gretel outwitted the witch by feigning ignorance. When the witch went to check the oven herself, Gretel pushed her in. Somehow Hermione doubted it would be that easy. One did not just _push_ a demon.

She glanced at the hag.

"Auntie?"

"Yes, dearie?"

"May I have some paper? I want to write down your recipe. It will be so delicious."

"But of course." The hag fetched her some parchment and a rough quill.

Hermione promptly tuned her out as she recited the ingredients. She was writing, but not what the demon thought.

* * *

Lucius listened to the recipe with a sardonic sneer on his face.

_Oh, you need about 200 pounds of man flesh, nicely tenderized and marinated..._

Something poked him in the chest. He looked down. There, in the shape a Muggle aircraft, was a folded piece of parchment. As he suspected, Granger was only faking interest in the evening's menu.

He unfolded it quietly.

_In a few minutes she is going to ask me to test how hot the oven is. It's a trick. She'll try to push me in to cook, and you'll follow right behind me. I will pretend I don't know how to test the temperature and when she moves to do it herself, I am going to try to push her in. If you want to live and not end up on her plate, you better help me. I'm sure you know she'd eat you raw and still alive if you get her mad enough._

True. Demons had nasty tempers.

As if on cue, the hag chimed up.

"I think the oven's ready, dearie. Would you check it for your auntie?"

Granger froze, but not for long. "I'm not sure I know how." Her hand dropped to her side, knife held tightly.

"You just open the door and stick your head in, of course. Go, go. Don't be afraid." The demon ushered Granger toward the tremendous oven. As she did, Lucius's eyes lit on two things that might give him a chance.

* * *

"I can't get the door open, auntie. It's too heavy!"

"Oh, you little waif! You just pull like this." She hauled the door open. It squealed on its hinges and Hermione's heart began to pound. The heat that burst from within felt like it was enough to singe her eyebrows. "Now just stick your head in, like this! That's all there is to it!"

Perfect. Perfect! Hermione lunged for the door and hit it with all her might, praying that the combined weight would push the demon into the oven.

* * *

Lucius leapt from the bath as soon as he saw the Granger girl make her move. His feet were slippery and he skidded most of the way into the kitchen, but miraculously, he got to the counter unscathed. The first thing he grabbed was a tub of salt, which he tucked into the cradle of his bad arm. The second was the demon's abandoned knife.

Knife was putting it mildly. It was a machete.

The girl screamed, wrenching his attention back to the oven. The demon had caught hold of her hair. It was shut in the oven save for one arm, which had shot out with deadly accuracy to latch onto the Mudblood.

The demon howled, jerking savagely at Granger's hair. Her feet were slipping; the demon was stronger than her. She fought anyway.

For a moment, he considered leaving her. Just a moment. Lucius had done many questionable things in his life and walked away easily. But somehow, this...

This he could not do. _He_ would be in that oven if not for the Mudblood. And something about the way she fought, with every ounce of her strength and willpower, remind him of Draco the day he had been dragged in by the Death Eaters...

* * *

A blade flashed and suddenly the demon made a sound so terrible that Hermione had to cover her ears. Malfoy was next to her, slamming his formidable body weight against the door. She groped forward to help him latch it. The lock clicked into place, but the demon wasn't done; the handle rattled violently. The whole cottage shook.

A roar went up and the glass portal in the oven's door exploded. Shards of glass nicked her face and Hermione prayed that that none had found her eyes. She had no time to think on it, for a moment later, a hand was around her throat squeezing hard enough to crush.

* * *

The demon's severed arm was strangling the girl. Lucius cursed and dropped the salt. He had managed to draw a crooked line at the bottom of the door, but something had to be done about the blown-out portal. The demon's remaining arm swiped from it with decapitating force, and as he dropped down to try to pry the other limb from Granger's neck, he felt a claw graze his back.

He took hold of the blackened, hoary appendage and dragged the girl away from the door. He practically had to sit on her to get her to turn to the side. That way, he could spear the arm with the knife and affix it to the floor.

Black blood splattered everywhere as he did it. The demon roared as if the arm was still attached to her. Ignoring it, Lucius wrapped his arm around the girl and pulled until the hand tore free of her neck and they fell backwards from the force. Its claws had gouged her, but she would survive.

* * *

Hermione coughed and gasped, feeling hot blood dripping down her neck. She didn't care as long as she continued to feel air going into her lungs, too. As she tried to catch her breath, she let her head drop to the side - and was met with the sight of the demon's impaled arm still wriggling on the floor.

"Bloody hell."

She looked up at Malfoy, who was half-crouched over her. His eyes were wide. A moment later, she saw why. The demon was squeezing itself through the tiny glass portal, its features pulling and distorting.

He leaned forward. "Accio salt!" By some miracle it came to him. With a shaking hand, he drew a hasty circle around them.

"I thought...that only worked...for ghosts," she panted.

"Ghosts follow many of the same rules as demons, and anytime you use something that belongs to a demon against it, it's more effective. Do you have a better idea?" he snapped.

"I think shoving it in the oven was pretty good!"

Malfoy had no retort. He was too busy watching the demon as it struggled to escape the oven, tension rife in his face. If it got out, they were probably dead.

But something seemed to hinder it; it couldn't keep itself solid enough to go through the portal. That didn't stop it from trying, wailing and frothing as it scrabbled at the small window frame. However, the heat of the oven was at last burning through its tough skin. The demon was melting.

"It's time to go."

Malfoy said it with finality, and she knew he was right.

* * *

Neither mocked the other for running from the cottage. They crashed through the brush, Malfoy half-dressed and holding a bundle of twigs to his chest, and Hermione clutching the knife she had taken from the demon. Eventually they came to a sheltered place that was enshrouded with lush trees. It hummed with magic, and it was this magic that stopped them both in their tracks.

Wards. These were wards. Hermione sunk to her knees in the grass. This place was safe.

* * *

Lucius laid on his back, staring up at the trees as he tried to catch his breath. Merlin. That thing back there...

But he was safe, at least for now. There was time to regroup. He needed that time desperately; his arm hurt like hell, the headache had not relented, and now he had a stinging wound on his back. A wound that was currently being christened with sweat made extra salty by the broth he had been sitting in.

At least he wasn't the only one who looked like a wreck. The Mudblood had a half-dozen cuts on her face and rapidly bruising claw marks on her neck. Blood was leaking down her temple from hair torn clean off her scalp. She also held her ribs on the left side, wincing as if she'd bruised or broken a few. Having witnessed the strength with which the demon pulled her against the oven door, it wouldn't surprise him.

If this was how it was going to be, it didn't seem likely that either of them would survive for very long. He frowned.

"How did you know?"

The girl turned. "What?"

"How did you know what would happen?"

She stared at him for a long time. Then she held out her arm. "Make an Unbreakable Vow that you won't harm me and I'll tell you."

Lucius just snorted and began to reaffix his sling.

* * *

No truce was spoken, but mutual need made it a necessity. Malfoy built a fire from the twigs that had mingled with the wand, which he found through trial and error, and they curled on either side of it. Exhaustion forbade questions, insults, or scheming. They slept.

* * *

Lucius woke first and wished he hadn't. It was remarkable how much a concussion felt like a hangover of epic proportions. He would have preferred to be waking after a night of self-induced drunkenness and revelry, rather than a battle with a demon.

He glanced over at Granger. Inexplicably, his chest tightened. In sleep, she looked her age. In sleep, she was a child. It was the same thought that had flashed through his mind at the moment he saw Draco being carried into the dungeon, bloodied and unconscious.

He turned away and closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

When he woke, he knew he wasn't in the same place. There was no whisper of leaves on trees, and the ground against his back was cold and hard. Stone.

How had he gotten here? He had no memory of moving, or even of waking. There was only blackness in his mind. And where was the Mudblood? Had they been caught? Or...was this...had they been freed from the trap?

He knew better than to hope. Ignoring his aches and pains, Lucius rose to his feet. It was dark and he instinctively thrust his hand out in front of him to grope for obstructions. When he found nothing, he reached for his wand. Any second of inattention could be costly. Merlin only knew what lurked in the dark...another demon, perhaps...

But he couldn't stand still waiting for it. If he was going to die he would prefer to meet it head on. So, with a deep breath, he raised the wand.

"Lumos."

Weak light filled the space. So this, too, was a spell that worked, though not very well. That made two. He could kill and provide mood lighting. What an accomplishment.

Lucius turned and took in his surroundings. He was alone in a small circular room, barely eight feet across. The walls and floor were brick and there was one shuttered window. The ceiling rose in a dizzying vault; his Lumos didn't even reach the top.

"No door," he murmured to himself. That meant the only way out was the window.

Lucius sighed. It couldn't be that easy. If he had learned anything in the last twenty-four hours, it was that nothing in this hell was meant to be easy.

He paced in the small space. Perhaps there was a trap door? Something had to lead somewhere. If only for his sanity, which was quickly becoming frazzled in such a small, dark room.

His only option was to try the window. With a resigned sigh, he started across the room. His walk was quickly halted by a vicious jerk backwards that sent him straight onto his arse.

Cursing, Lucius lay on the cold stone floor. He had just given himself whiplash and his scalp was screaming. Thank Merlin he had not landed on his arm. What in the hell? Cautiously, he reached up to see what held him in place.

His fingers met only the familiar texture of his hair. Somehow, through all of this, it remained mostly undisturbed, if a little lanker than usual. The Mudblood, on the other hand...a small smile breached his lips involuntarily. In spite of how annoying the little shrew was, he could not help but be amused at her plight. By the time all was said and done she would likely be sporting dreadlocks.

But back to more important things, like figuring out what tethered him. He walked his hand slowly up his hair and began to frown. He should not be able to stretch his arm all the way up. His hair wasn't _that_ long.

Lucius turned over onto his side and his mouth fell open. His hair _was_ that long. In fact, it stretched all the way to the wall, where it seemed to be anchored to something. He crawled towards it.

"Bloody hell."

It was the Gordian knot, bound inches deep around a thick iron ring that was anchored into the wall. He couldn't see any identifiable end.

Well, there was a simple solution to that. It was time for a haircut. Lucius reached into his pocket for the knife he'd taken from the demon's cottage. He was normally quite neurotic about his hair, but he would shave himself bald if it meant getting out of this place.

However, when he brought the blade down upon the sheath of hair, nothing happened. It was like trying to cut stone. He pressed harder, hoping that it was resistant only because there was so much of it. Still nothing. No matter how he hacked at it, or where, it remained impenetrable.

This wasn't going to work. He had to shift his focus. Perhaps the ring in the wall could be removed...

Lucius moved closer to the ring so he could see by the weak light of the wand. It was then that he noticed the intricate artwork that covered the ceiling. The panels were painted with pastoral scenes - pictures of the world he could not see in this stifling room.

He returned his attention to the ring in the wall. It was old, blacksmith-shaped iron anchored to the wall by crude, triangular stakes. They had been pounded into the bricks and then sealed with molten metal. It wasn't impossible to remove, but it would take a long time and a lot of work.

Of course he only had one hand to do that work. Lucius sighed and sat back, contemplating the best way to go about the task at hand. If he used the knife to pry the metal seal loose, then perhaps the stakes would slide out easily. It seemed like the best option.

He set to work, sliding the blade into the seal where it laid over the seam between the stone walls. That part was easy to pry. The rest of it was not so cooperative. It took every ounce of strength he had to pry a half inch section away from the wall.

Lucius sat back, panting, sweat dripping down his back. He was greeted with the sight of the ceiling; it seemed much closer than before, and the room much smaller. No. No, it couldn't be. He was just imagining it. Shaking his head, he returned to the tedious work.

He thought of all the things he wanted to do to the Dark Lord if he ever got out of this place. Lock him in the dungeon and leave him to wither away. Could he die? That was irrelevant. Whether he could die or not, he could still suffer. That was the part that mattered. Oh, yes. The dungeon...or perhaps...yes, yes, bind him into servitude and force him to replace the House Elves. That was sufficiently malevolent. A small smile began to tug at Lucius's mouth.

Ten minutes later, he had managed to pry another inch of the metal away from the wall. He already had a blister on his hand and his thumb was bleeding. Sweat was running into his eye. Lucius blinked and brushed the sweat away, leaning back to shake a few stray strands of hair out of his face. Not only was the extra hair incredibly heavy, but it held heat only too well; his neck, and indeed all of him, was beginning to tire.

_I am going to die of dehydration at this rate._

Maybe, but he had no other option. Lucius continued to work. Now half the ring was separated from the wall, but the other half still held tight.

HIs neck began to ache. With an irritated sigh, Lucius let his head fall back to ease the pressure. What met his glance made him jump.

The ceiling _was_ closer. A lot closer. It hovered perhaps five yards above him. Before, he had not even been able to see it. Now the rolling green meadows full of sheep and butterflies were so close that he felt like he was looking out at them through the window.

He swallowed. The ceiling was...

Fuck.

* * *

Hermione cursed. She should have known. She should have _known_ why Voldemort would put her in a red hooded sweater.

She had outrun a werewolf before, but that time she'd had the aid of a Hippogriff. This one seemed ten times bigger than Remus Lupin had, and with twice as many teeth. The fact that it was running around in a bloody dressing gown and bonnet was the icing on the cake. A werewolf dressed like an elderly woman was going to eat her.

This was how her life was going to end. She put her head down and ran as hard as she could, teeth gritted. Her only solace was that in all likelihood, Malfoy was suffering an even greater humiliation.

* * *

He couldn't bother with prying the damn thing loose. Brute strength was the only way he could possibly pull the ring from the wall and escape through the window before the ceiling became the floor, and he a pureblood pancake. That time would arrive shortly, if the steady descent of the ceiling was any indication.

Lucius wrapped his hand around the rope of golden hair and pulled. It didn't budge. Cursing, he slid closer and put his feet against the wall. Even with the added leverage, it didn't seem to go anywhere. But...wait, wait...he felt it move a fraction of an inch...just a little more weight and it might break free.

That meant...oh, this was going to hurt. Wincing, he moved his left arm and put his swollen hand on the thick braid. He didn't want to do this. Oh, he really didn't.

_But you really don't want to be crushed to death, either, do you?_

No.

Lucius braced himself. He would only be able to do this once. Knees bent. Fingers wound into the plait. Everything he had...

With a shout, Lucius pulled, his entire body straining. Incredible pain shot through his arm. With a grating screech the iron ring pulled free of the wall and he fell backwards onto the floor.

He couldn't breathe. The pain was so intense that he was paralyzed. Lucius knew he had to _move_, to get to the window and throw himself to whatever fate waited beyond it, but it was impossible to function. All he could do was wait to be crushed.

A minute passed. Air began to return to him, pulled in by quick, panting breaths. His arm throbbed, but to his surprise, it felt better than before - as if it had been out of place and was now corrected. He let out a short laugh. He had just set his own fractured arm.

A moment later, Lucius dared to open his eyes. The ceiling was only centimeters above him. Pulling the ring from the wall must have stopped its descent. He wasn't sure he could get to the window with it so low, but he had to try.

His shoulders barely fit when he turned onto his side. He crawled, dragging the heavy braid and its iron bond behind him. The window was set back from the rest of the room, as it turned out, and there was enough space for him to stand if he twisted his body just so.

Lucius was not an acrobatic man, but he was graceful enough to do what he had to. His back was not best pleased with it. However, it seemed that very little of him was pleased with the events that had taken place so far. Why should his back be excluded?

He rested his head against the window's shutter. At this rate, he might seriously consider suicide in the near future. Maybe if he provoked the Mudblood enough, she would kill him. He could only hope.

With a deep breath, Lucius opened the window.

* * *

Her lungs were on fire, and her legs were not far behind. So far Hermione had been able to use the forest's magic to her advantage, enlisting the aid of the trees, shrubs, and other plants to slow the werewolf down, but it crashed through every barrier as if they were nothing. Razor-sharp thorns, burrs, tangled vines - it tore right through them.

But it looked like there was an opening up ahead. Maybe it was another safe haven, like the area that was warded - the place she had been able to sleep and heal after the Hansel and Gretel ordeal. That was her only hope. So Hermione ran for her life, praying to everything in existence that safety lay beyond the trees.

* * *

Of course he was at the top of a tower. Why wouldn't he be?

Lucius sighed and leaned against the window frame. At least there was some fresh air. He was still sweating and this cooled his burning skin.

The view was pretty, but less so because he knew that nothing good could lurk in the forest that lay at the foot of the tower. As if on cue, something burst from the trees. He squinted, unsure what it was. It was red, and it was moving very fast...and...screaming?

* * *

Hermione almost ran into the tower. There was so little room between the trees and the tower that she was barely able to put on the brakes in time. She skidded to a halt with her palms against the grey stones.

She let out a scream of pure frustration. There were no wards here. But what the hell was that, up there? Was that _Malfoy _with his head out the window, looking curiously down at her...with a loop of _hair_ dangling by his elbow?

"You have got to be kidding me!"

* * *

It was the Mudblood. She looked up and shouted something; he couldn't hear it.

"What?" he called.

"The hair!" she screamed. The sound of the werewolf crashing through the forest was frightfully near. "THE HAIR!"

The hair? He blinked. What about the sodding hair?

"WHAT?"

* * *

"THE HAIR!" Hermione let out another cry, so frustrated that tears came to her eyes. She looked up at the sky, which was blue and placid, oblivious to the life and death drama playing out beneath it. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" she said to herself, and to a Voldemort who would never hear. "Fine!"

She looked at Malfoy again, and belted at the top of her lungs: "RAPUNZEL, RAPUNZEL, LET DOWN YOUR HAIR!"

* * *

Who in the hell was Rapunzel? And why was Granger jumping up and down like a hyperactive child after too many Chocolate Frogs? Lucius shook his head in bewilderment.

That was when a very distinctive sound pierced the air.

_Awooooooooooooooooooo..._

A werewolf. Close.

In a second, everything slipped into place. Instead of thinking, instead of debating, Lucius acted. He gathered the thick cord of hair and tossed it out the window.

* * *

Oh, thank Merlin! Thank Merlin the man had a sliver of intelligence in that bigoted head of his! The massive bundle of hair hit the ground, pulled by an iron ring. Hermione vaulted onto it, sliding her foot into the ring and wrapping her legs around the braid.

"PULL ME UP!"

* * *

He was not graceful. He couldn't be when he was struggling to pull a fully grown, albeit petite woman up by his own hair with only one arm to work with. Lucius pulled and then had to step on the hair to hold it in place before he could reach for the next handful. He heard her shriek but couldn't stop to see if the wolf had gotten her. He just kept pulling until a small, pale hand groped over the window frame.

Oddly, as soon as Hermione scrambled in the window, the room put itself to rights. The ceiling returned to its soaring height and the room seemed to expand; it now included a bed, a small washbasin, and a table set with fruit, cheese, bread, and water. Neither occupant noticed this right away. They found themselves on the floor once again, panting and nursing new ills.

Lucius was the first to break the silence.

"What...in the hell...is happening?"

* * *

She explained it to him without condition, too tired to care that she was giving up her only advantage. Though, technically she was not giving up anything; even if he knew the world they were in was based on Muggle fairy tales, he still hadn't read the aforementioned stories. She still had the upper hand there.

To her surprise, Malfoy didn't mock. He simply listened, eyes and brain cataloguing all that she said. When she was finished he leaned back, cautiously wiggling the fingers on his left hand as he thought.

"These tales," he murmured, "how many of them are there?"

"Hundreds," Hermione sighed.

He looked up sharply. "Hundreds?"

She knew why it was shocking. Wizards only had Beedle the Bard, and a scant few others according to region. Hundreds of tales seemed an obscene number.

"Some are better known than others. The ones we've been through so far are some of the most famous."

"Tell me."

She tilted her head, surprised by that request. "The stories?"

"Yes."

And that was how she found herself telling Lucius Malfoy the stories of Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, and Rapunzel.

* * *

"Magic. It's all magic."

Granger nodded. "Muggles just don't know how else to frame it."

He shook his head. What madness. Lucius let his eyes drift around the room, noticing its additions for the first time. Granger followed his glance, which had fixed upon the food.

"Do you think it's poisoned?" he asked, unsure why he felt the need to continue speaking to her.

"Only the apples," she replied.

His stomach rumbled. He had not eaten in two days. Indeed, he had almost _been_ eaten, and that did nothing to fill the belly. Wincing at the soreness that had taken hold of his body, Lucius pushed to his feet.

"I'll take my chances."

* * *

Malfoy didn't seem to be dropping dead. With that assurance, she dragged herself up to the small table and piled some crusty bread, grapes, and white cheese upon her plate. She would avoid the apples even though they looked incredible.

* * *

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Thoughts buzzed around his head like swarming flies. Why had he saved her?

He knew that she knew something. The details she had imparted to him about the demon were too specific. Somehow, she had been able to predict what was going to happen. The pragmatist in the deepest part of his mind said that he needed that knowledge on his side. Having gotten the answer out of her, he now knew that he was right. He could only grope blindly through this world. Without her guidance, he would be dead.

It was a chilling stroke of genius on the Dark Lord's part. Lucius had a wand and she did not. However, she knew what was to come and he did not. The only hope of survival was to work together even though they couldn't stand one another.

But there was something more. From the moment he had laid eyes on her asleep next to the embers of their campfire, he had been bludgeoned with the realization that she was only a child. A brave one, to be sure, and smarter than most children and probably many adults, but still a child. Like his son. Like Draco.

From there his mind had drawn a hazy connection. If he could protect her, _save_ her, maybe he could do the same for Draco. Maybe it would prove that he could keep something unspoiled...even if it was just an annoying Mudblood.

And frankly, whatever dark and tangled feelings he had about her and her _origins _couldn't create the desire to watch her be torn apart by a werewolf. Some sights were too terrible to comprehend. Besides, she had been stupid enough to come save him in the cottage made of sweets even though she knew what lurked inside. By the oldest laws of magic, he owed her.

* * *

Malfoy was very, very quiet. Hermione wasn't sure what to make of it. She hoped he wasn't plotting his next attempt at murder.

She thought that very unlikely. He was realizing now how much he needed her. In fact, telling him about this world's roots was the best thing she could have done. Even if he wasn't directly at her mercy, he needed every bit of information she had if he wanted to survive.

Eventually Malfoy moved away from the table and toward the washbasin. He began to undress without saying anything. Hermione left the table and headed for the bed. It was on the other side of the room; it was the best she could do in terms of giving him privacy. She lay on the wide mattress and within a minute, sleep claimed her.

* * *

Like his first bath out of Azkaban, the washing felt like heaven. He scrubbed the salty tang of the demon's broth out of his skin with focused intensity. His only lament was that he couldn't wash his hair; it was still so heavy and long, and it would have taken him a year.

At least it had not been soaked in broth like the rest of him. It would hold out until the next opportunity to wash. _If_ there was a next opportunity...

He resisted the urge to look at his reflection in one of the silver plates. He had made the mistake of looking at himself right after escaping prison and seriously regretted it. The man who looked back at him now would probably look the same, if not worse. Wild hair, bruised face, stubble, tired eyes...

Yes, it was best to leave it alone.

* * *

A hand shook her. Hermione could barely open her eyes.

"Go wash."

She heard the words but was too tired to respond. The hand shook her again.

"Wake up."

"No."

* * *

Instead of being irritated by her petulance, Lucius found himself smiling with an odd kind of despair. Draco, too, was nearly impossible to wake when he was in a deep sleep. Narcissa had told him that he was that way, as well - or at least he had been, before Azkaban. Now the tiniest noises woke him unless he was practically dead.

He shook Granger's shoulder again. If she didn't get up this time, he would let her be. It wasn't his concern whether she washed or not. Although he supposed he would have to smell her if they were stuck in this world together...

"Go wash up. You may not get another chance for some time."

* * *

Malfoy's words sunk in beyond the haze of sleep. He was right. She had to take concessions where she could get them.

She was dizzy with fatigue, so much so that she feared she might fall asleep in the middle of washing, or worse, have to ask Malfoy for help. She was certain that his magnanimity didn't go that far. Fortunately, when the lukewarm water hit her skin, it woke her enough to complete the ritual.

Her ribs were bruised. Hell, _all_ of her was bruised. If things kept on like this, they would both die of exhaustion.

When she was finished, she threw the red sweater aside and put her other clothing back on. Malfoy had taken her place in the bed and was fast asleep. He lay on his back with his broken arm resting in the sling against his chest. And there, tucked into the sling, was the wand.

The urge to take it was overwhelming. She fought it for a long minute, knowing that it would destroy the fragile peace that had been forged silently between them. The sling reminded her that he had pulled her all the way up here with just one arm - and that it was not in his nature to have saved her at all.

Hermione climbed into the bed, turned onto her side so that her back faced him, and surrendered to sleep once again.

* * *

In the morning, the food and washbasin were gone, but so was Lucius's extra hair. The window vanished in favor of a door. They stood in front of it, equally dreading whatever lay beyond.

Finally, Lucius stepped forward and turned the doorknob. She noticed as he opened the door that he had picked up the red sweater and tucked it into his sling. Hermione didn't know what to make of it, and frankly, she didn't care, for she never wanted to see that stupid sweater again.


	4. Chapter 4

And so it went, on and on. Sometimes they were together, sometimes they were apart. They were always fighting for their lives.

Food came sporadically. The chance to wash was infrequent and they soon lost their anxiety when it came to one another's bodies. The need to be clean was too important for such paltry concerns. Lucius didn't see her as an object of sexuality, though he was sure many men would, and Hermione simply didn't look - at least at first.

* * *

Another tale brought another night huddled around a fire. Hermione watched Lucius as he tried to mend her red sweater with the wand. She had gotten over her initial animosity toward the garment when she realized how warm it was. The nights here were always cold.

She knew his look of irritation well. The wand wasn't cooperating. As time went by the wand seemed to allow him to perform more spells, but it was still extremely limited. It wasn't the spell she was interested in this time around; it was the fact that he was moving his left arm with ease.

"We've been in here a long time."

He glanced up, face angular in the firelight. "Why do you say that?"

"Your arm is healed."

He seemed to notice it for the first time. After making a few movements with it, he nodded. "So it is." He touched the skin, which had lost its vivid bruising. "How long does a bone take to knit without magic?"

She was surprised that he didn't know. But why would he? There had never been a reason to suffer like that before, not in his world.

"A month or two," she replied. "So we've been in here at least that long."

He frowned, but that was all.

* * *

"There has to be a better way to do this."

He looked back at her, so tired that he saw three of her swimming before his eyes. "Of course there's a better way!" he snapped. "But we don't have the option of doing it that way, in case you didn't notice."

She was quiet. He had the sneaking suspicion that she had a wounded look on her face, but the rippling quality of his vision kept him from knowing for sure. Lucius didn't feel guilty. He had always hated when people stated the obvious.

"Let me try the wand," she said quietly.

* * *

Hermione held her breath. She had not brought up the wand in a very long time. Not since they had embarked upon this fragile alliance, in fact. They both knew that the wand was mostly useless; Lucius sometimes forgot he had it. They had taken to using the knives gained during the first mad adventure in the cake cottage.

Nonetheless, it remained an imbalance between them. Though it had never been turned on her, Hermione knew it was the last thing he held on to that made him better than her. The last vestige of his pureblood superiority. It was, in short, the last thing that remained of the man that had been thrown in here with her.

She didn't know if he was ready to let go of it yet. When it came to Lucius, she didn't know much at all.

* * *

The wand. The fucking wand.

It did _nothing_. It was such a bloody tease, being in his hand, yet unresponsive, impotent, unreliable. He had never realized how much he depended on magic until he had to learn how to defend himself without it.

But this was a different kind of puzzle. There were no demons, no werewolves, no crazed men with axes, no dwarves covered in coal dust, no kings with impossible tasks, and no dragons. Hermione had told him the story as soon as she figured out which one it was. All they were looking for was a pea.

One single pea in a maze made of mattresses constructed so tightly that there wasn't room to sit down, let alone rest. They couldn't stop, couldn't sleep in this world full of beds - not until they found the _one _bed that contained a pea.

Hermione thought there would be clues. So far there had only been row after row of identical mattresses. Their only choice was to examine each one in the desperate hope that the tiniest imperfection would show itself. So far none had.

Lucius had no watch so he didn't know how much time had passed. He did know that he was tired, hungry, thirsty, and unable to see straight. How Hermione was faring any better was a mystery. Perhaps she just hid it better.

If he had a wand that worked, he would have cast some kind of algorithm spell. Perhaps a distinction charm, which could be altered for this situation, as it was meant to pick out things that were different among a group. Lucius had tried, but the wand wouldn't work.

He was tired. So bloody tired.

What would it matter, anyway? The wand didn't work. The only thing it did with any kind of regularity was cast Unforgivables and a thready Lumos. Occasionally it deigned to give them a spark to start a fire.

He no longer bore any delusions that blood mattered. The only way in which blood mattered in this world was their capacity to retain their own. Lucius was certain that the Dark Lord had never intended for either of them to make it this far. If he had killed Hermione that first day like he wanted to, it was questionable whether Lucius would even have made it past the first level.

But the Dark Lord was meticulous; he would see things through to the end just to be sure. That was why the stories went on and on. Or perhaps there was something more sinister about it; perhaps he intended to use this creation more than once. Perhaps it was meant to be a prison or a place of disposal for those who opposed him, and he and Hermione were the test subjects.

He looked at the rows of white mattresses stretched out before him. Yes, there was definitely something more to all of this. An incredible amount of magic had gone into creating this world. The Dark Lord wouldn't waste it on two people he could not be bothered to kill himself.

Lucius thought once more of Narcissa and Draco. He conjured their images whenever he needed motivation. When he hurt, when he starved, when he froze, and when he needed the willpower to go on in spite of all that, they provided it. Though, as time went by their faces became hazy and the sounds of their voices distorted. But he would never forget the baser things - their smells, and what they meant to him.

It was with that in mind that he turned to his companion and held out the wand. Hermione Granger wouldn't kill him. She wouldn't leave him behind, either. Hell, she had not even been able to do that when he was actively trying to kill her. There was no danger in this. In all likelihood, the wand would prove just as useless for her and they would wander among the mattresses until they became so exhausted that they slept standing up or died. Whichever came first.

* * *

Hermione stared at him. Though he held out the wand like it had been an easy decision, she knew it wasn't. Swallowing, she stepped forward and reached for it.

The sensation when she touched the wand was...

* * *

He let go of the wand with a start. The _sound_ she made...Merlin. Its sensuality caught him off guard. Though, for all he knew, he might make the same kind of sound if he had not been able to use magic for months and suddenly found a wand in his hand.

* * *

Her arm was shaking. She had used small bits of wandless magic here and there, but had long ago stopped relying on magic. It was her brains that would get her through this, not the magic Voldemort sought to take from her. Would it not be even more of an insult if she got through his traps without any magic at all?

She had forgotten the rush. The feeling of power moving under her skin, congealing, waiting to be funneled for good or ill. It gripped her like a rapture now; she hoped the wand would work.

She spoke the same spells he'd fired off earlier with some subtle variations. Nothing had happened for him. However, when she spoke the words, the wand began to glow. A golden beam shot from the wand and swept through the mattresses all around them, cascading to the end of the row.

* * *

Of course. Of course it would work for her. It was only his stubbornness and paranoia that had kept them scrounging up to this point. That, he realized with a jolt, was why he could only cast Unforgivables. Wands were sometimes more attuned to their users than anyone realized, and he had told it exactly what kind of wizard he was from the first spell he cast.

* * *

The light stopped and shone up in a bright pillar.

"There!" she shouted, delirious with joy. "It's there!"

It was far away, but not so far that adrenaline couldn't carry them.

* * *

When at last they could succumb to sleep, there were no mattresses in evidence. They collapsed in yet another wooded clearing. Its grass was high and soft, fragrant, and small white moths glided among it. The trees were a lush cocoon above them. Hermione thought, before sleep claimed her, that it was the kind of place where one would not be surprised to be approached by talking forest creatures with great big sparkling eyes.

Lucius thought nothing, for he had nothing left in reserve. However, before he fell asleep, he felt her hand against his chest. He had become so used to having the sling there when his arm healed that he now kept the robe tied around him as a kind of bag; it was where he carried their meager provisions. Any food they found along the way, small weapons, trinkets that might be of use - they all went in there. Until now, the wand made its home there, as well.

He felt her move to slip the wand back in. Lucius reached up to catch her hand. She resisted, but only for a moment. In the next breath, they both fell asleep, hands joined about the wand.

* * *

Lucius was always awake before her. Always.

Hermione laid still among the grass, too comfortable to move just yet. The view wasn't too shabby, either. Lucius had his back to her as he rummaged through his things. He was shirtless, and his hair hung wet and wavy about his shoulders. It would lay flat when it dried, but when it was wet, it pretended it had more spirit.

There must be a stream nearby. He had gone to bathe while she slept. Hermione frowned; he had left the wand with her. It was still clutched in her hand.

"The water is very cold," he said without turning. "But needs must." He sat and pulled his hair over his shoulder to braid it loosely. He, too, had noticed that the days were growing warmer, and that leaving his hair down was almost unbearable. There were seasons in this godforsaken place.

"I would kill for your hair," she murmured. Hers would never obey the way his did.

"You have the wand. Fix it." There was a trace of a smile in his voice.

"It would take hours."

He turned at last, resting an elbow on his knee. "I am in no hurry for our next brush with death."

She made a valiant attempt, but in the end, there was no salvaging the tangled nest that had formed upon her head. Hermione took the knife to it with something like gusto. She had always wanted to be brave enough to cut all her hair off; it was a nuisance. Her mother and the other women she knew told her not to. They told her she would look too boyish.

She had no one to impress in here. Malfoy did not give a shit about her hair, and to him, she was about as feminine as an ape, so it didn't matter.

"You missed a spot."

Hermione looked up. Lucius gestured to a spot on his own head, just above his ear. She reached up and closed her hand around one last stubborn curl. It fell away with a slash of the knife.

* * *

It was like looking at a different person. With her hair cropped closely about her head, all the features that had been overshadowed by her hair were on plain display. Wide brown eyes framed in long lashes, a pert, freckled nose, a heart-shaped face, and a long, graceful neck...she was gamine.

He closed his eyes. That neck...it reminded him of Narcissa, of the way he had been able to walk up behind her when no one was looking and nestle his lips into that slender curve of flesh...of the almost embarrassing intensity of the love he felt for her. Lucius had to turn away.

The last few months had taught him much about how wrong he could be - about life, about people, about _himself_. Hermione was yet another thing he had been wrong about. She was not a child. She was young, yes, but she was a woman.

He had to be careful. Very, very careful.

"It's that bad?"

Lucius turned back to her, realizing that she had misinterpreted his sudden retreat. He cleared his throat.

"No. Actually...it...quite suits you, I think."

Hermione stared at him. Had Malfoy just given her a compliment? She reached up to touch what was left of her hair. It felt so strange, yet so light. So liberating.

Her eyes fell upon the pile of hair that had fallen into the grass. Merlin. Of course, since she'd had it on her head her entire life, she knew how unruly it was...but seeing it sitting there in a tremendous pile struck her.

She began to laugh.

Oh, Merlin help him. Already, he had not been careful enough, for he was smiling at her mirth. It couldn't be helped. The hair she'd shed looked like a small animal gathered upon the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

Lucius was distant. She didn't know what she had done to make him that way, but he scarcely spoke. If she addressed him he would answer, but he had stopped looking directly at her most of the time, and his voice had a strangled quality to it.

It seemed like shame. Hermione knew better than to believe that. Oddly, for the first time in his life, Lucius Malfoy had nothing to be ashamed about.

* * *

Rain roared all around them. They were both soaked to the skin. Lucius seemed not to notice; he was too busy creating a splint for her ankle. It had twisted badly in their last escape.

She had tried to ignore it, to go on, because that was what he did when he was injured. It simply began to hurt too much. Nothing was broken, but the pain brought tears to her eyes, and somehow he had been able to distinguish them from the raindrops.

Hermione watched him as he fashioned the splint out of wood and strips of muslin they'd accumulated in their travels. His hair was plastered to his head, dark and wavy in the rain water, and that frown line in stark appearance between his brows as he concentrated.

He had carried her on his back.

* * *

She was asleep. He knew how exhausting an injury could be; his arm had taken quite a toll on him, at first. That was probably the only reason she could sleep in wet clothes on an uneven cave floor.

He couldn't. Even though it was this world's summer, the rain and howling wind were cold. He had nothing to start a fire with and he didn't dare strip - not himself, and definitely not her.

Maybe...

Thoughtfully, Lucius reached for the wand. She kept it in her pocket. It worked for her with the exception of healing, temperature, and very complex charms. He hadn't tried it since first handing it over to her. Time was losing its meaning aside from the cycle of day and night, so he had no idea how long ago that had been. It could have been a week and it could have been a year.

But however long it had been, it was long enough, for when he touched the wand to his clothing and recited a drying charm, it worked.

* * *

Her feet were killing her. Literally.

Hermione thought she had danced all night once before. How wrong she was. She had taken breaks that night of the Yule Ball, sipping punch, talking to people, eating hors d'oeuvres, walking around with Viktor. She couldn't even stop to go to the bathroom now.

All the others looked as miserable as her. And why not? Any woman who was forced to dance her shoes to pieces every night would be miserable. Especially when the dancing was only for the benefit of the princes who watched, eyes sliding lasciviously over the nubile bodies before them.

She could only pray that Lucius would figure things out before her feet fell off and one of the princes decided he wanted her to do something more than dance.

* * *

These Muggle stories had an element of the predictable in them. He had learned quickly that he should never eat or drink what was offered to him, and that princesses were always up to something. Not to mention that the King could never be bothered to find out what it was for himself; he always needed some poor, unsuspecting bloke to risk his neck over it.

These princesses were different. There were twelve of them, of which Hermione was one, and they had no control over what they were forced to do each night. Twelve princes bore them away to a great hall across a lake and they danced until dawn as the princes watched and laughed. One in particular had taken a liking to Hermione; he even dared to put his hands on her.

Lucius recognized the danger inherent in the feeling of rage that it caused. There was nothing to be done for it; once there, it couldn't be chased away. It could only be controlled. He knew that much.

One more token and he would be able to prove it to the King. Until then, he had to lay low. But if that prince thought he was going to get lucky this evening, he had another thing coming.

* * *

Fortunately, the prince never did more than grope her. Hermione was rowed back to the castle with the others, her feet bloody and her shoes in tatters.

After a meager hour of sleep, she and the others were awakened, told to dress, and herded to the castle's main hall. Lucius stood before the throne, an unfamiliar cloak around his shoulders. He had figured it out. Thank Merlin.

She half-dozed while he explained it all to the King. She knew what would happen from here. The King would thank him by rewarding him the kingdom and a princess of his choosing. He would choose her and they would have one night of rest before being shunted on to the next story.

"Which princess do you choose, stranger?"

She waited for him to speak, but there was only silence. Hermione opened her eyes. What was the matter with him?

Lucius stood frozen. His glance was stuck on the first princess, the eldest, and his expression was...she couldn't describe it. Pain, longing, disbelief - they all mingled on his face.

She followed his eyes. Until now, she had never looked closely at any of the women that surrounded her. They were unimportant. However, now that she really looked at the eldest princess, she could see what gave Lucius pause.

She looked just like Narcissa.

* * *

Was it possible?

No. Even though his heart ached, wished it to be so, and tried desperately to overrule his mind, he knew it was not his wife standing there. She, like everything else in here, was a method of torture.

But couldn't he choose her? Just this once? Oh, to look at her, to touch her, even though it wasn't _really_ her...

_No, Lucius_. _Don't fall for his trap. Don't fall for it, no matter how much you want to..._

"That one," he forced out. "With the short hair."

All eyes in the hall turned to Hermione. She burned with self-consciousness under the scrutiny.

"That one?" the King asked. "Are you sure? My eldest daughter-"

"_That one_," Lucius replied, his voice bordering on a growl.

The King's face bore a look of distaste.

"As you wish," he said.

And for the barest moment, Lucius saw a flash of red in his eyes.

* * *

Lucius had not spoken since they retired to the posh bedroom granted by the King. Hermione didn't know what to say or do. It was obvious how badly it had hurt him to choose her.

Her feelings for him had been shifting, swirling, and now they aligned firmly in her belly. She stood up with a wince and hobbled over to him. Her hands moved over his shoulders of their own accord, brushing his hair aside to press into the tense muscles.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

* * *

Oh, the silly thing had no idea. She didn't understand what he had just done. If Narcissa was still alive out there in the real world, she wouldn't be for much longer.

Maybe that was meant to be his way out. Maybe if he had selected the Narcissa lookalike, he would have been pulled out of this hell. He would have left Hermione behind.

If anyone could survive alone, it was her. But she had never abandoned him, even when he was very much worth abandoning. He couldn't spit in the face of her loyalty. He couldn't spurn what was right here in front of him...not for an illusion.

The sensation of being pulled in two directions was so exquisitely painful. It tortured him to think that he might have signed Narcissa's death warrant, but would he really have been able to exist in the real world knowing that he had signed Hermione's? Was there any possibility that anything more than death awaited him out there?

There was no right answer, and god damn it, it hurt.

* * *

The need to comfort him was overwhelming. She was at a loss for how to do it. Words wouldn't work. His muscles had not loosened beneath her hands.

Distraction. She had to distract him. She had to distract herself...to find some peace among the fear, the anxiety, the misery, and the pain that this never-ending prison inflicted upon them.

* * *

The dress was slipping from her shoulders, revealing delicate collar bones and the tops of her pale, firm breasts. She moved with determination onto his lap. Lucius could only struggle for breath as her lips touched his neck.

He was aroused, he was in pain, and he felt sick. He didn't know what to do. He leaned back on his hands, passively letting her do what she wanted.

God. Her hands were so small against his skin, so warm, and they scalded him. His body reacted to her with an eagerness that was both terrifying and wonderful. And now she wanted to kiss him.

Lucius closed his eyes. Who was he kissing? Who did he _want_ to kiss? He no longer knew.

* * *

She pulled back. He returned her kiss, but it was a timid effort, and the look on his face...

Hermione couldn't back away fast enough. This wasn't right. He was married. He loved his wife. She was not a replacement, and could never be...but she was _something _to him.

Right now, in this state, he wouldn't say no to her. But if she went through with it, it would break him. It would shatter him into a million pieces.

* * *

He opened his eyes. Hermione had stepped away from him. She stood there, framed by fading sunlight, and at last he admitted to himself that she was beautiful. As beautiful as Narcissa, but in very different ways.

_You understand, don't you?_

And she did, for a moment later she fixed her dress and left him alone.

* * *

They didn't speak of it. The next day Lucius had regained his composure, and Hermione her sense. But when he picked her up on his back, knowing her feet were too raw to walk on, their hands had lost their platonic touch. Things were different and they both knew it. Even if their minds wished to deny it, their bodies could not.

* * *

"To the end," he said one night, when some wine had come into their possession. "Whatever form it may take."

She looked at him over the rim of the wooden cup. This place was taking a toll on him. Ever since having to bypass the clone of his wife, he had been difficult to draw out. Hermione prayed that they would never have to face a foe who looked like Draco.

She raised the cup and he did the same. Then she sipped the sweet red wine. When it hit her tongue, she had to close her eyes. Voldemort was clever, indeed; he had placed little bits of humanity in this trap to keep them from ever giving up completely.

They were like rats in a maze. The would run and run and run in the hopes of even one food pellet, but there was always another wall. She gazed at Lucius. He was looking away, staring into a darkness only he knew.

So many walls.

* * *

The air was growing cool again. The wine would warm them for tonight, but soon sleeping outdoors wouldn't be an option. Lucius sighed and corked the wine.

Perhaps it was the wine that made Hermione bold. He didn't know for sure, but she crept around the small fire and nestled against him. It felt so good to have a warm body in his arms that he didn't protest. He pushed away the aching thoughts that bombarded his mind and slept.


End file.
